


20/20

by malchanceux



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, F/M, First Meetings, Genderbedning, One Night Stands, Rough Sex, Rule 63, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex, always a girl matt murdock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-03-04 23:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: Alternate first meeting. A one night stand.Or.Matty gets stood up; Fisk cannot standby and let such an injustice simply unfold.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hindsight was always a sardonic thing for Matty to wallow in. It was unfortunate, then, that her choice in men often led her down the same muddied path and into the same dark waters. Embarrassment lapping like shallow waves at her mind, leaving behind crawling skin and an uncomfortable heat.

Generally, Matty liked to think she had good taste. More often than not, things did not start to unravel until date five or six. By then her interests would have already started to wane, so when prince charming began to feel relaxed around her enough to open himself up, Matty did not feel so cold when she would pick him apart until she decided she had means to move on unscathed. 

Matty never felt guilty about the men she left behind. She supposed this trait, her inability to make lasting commitments to the men she slept with, was linked to some deeper issue that would one day need to be dealt with. She considered her entire college career at Columbia University to be  _ ‘not that day’. _

Perhaps then,  _ that  _ is what led Matty to the unsavory situation she found herself in.

Dressed for a night in town, Madeline Murdock sat ridged, feeling absolutely exposed in her sleeveless top and tight pencil skirt. Foggy had described the look as  _ hot secretary  _ but also  _ not trying too hard.  _ At the time, Matty was inclined to believe him. Sitting alone in  _ Ferrero’s Italiana _ , having sat there well near an hour waiting on her date, she questioned the cleavage of her blouse and her make-up; her hair and the height of her heels. How she appeared to those around her.

How did she look, so obviously stood up. Just pathetic, or dolled up like a cheap whore?

Logically Matty knew that the unfortunate situation had nothing to do with the big ‘W’ her mind kept labeling herself with. It was her insecurities from a childhood in a rough part of town and being raised by nuns that always dragged her down to that level. Nothing there could be substantiated by proof.

Even still, the word hung over her like a dark cloud; twined and twisted its way into the reality of being played by some dick from her humanities studies.

When it had officially become an hour with no hide or hair or fucking _ text  _ from her date, Matty decided to ask the waiter for something a little stronger than an iced tea before the walk of shame out of the restaurant. 

“Excuse me,” the deep rasp of a hesitant male brought Matty out of her emotional implosion. She had heard his approach--even distracted as she is Matty is always  _ listening-- _ but had not suspected he’d stop at her table. He wasn’t a waiter, she could tell, but a patron who had been seated in a secluded booth across from her shortly after her arrival. “I --Don’t wish to be rude. But, I have noticed you here, by yourself.”

_ Oh god, please don’t make some kind of scene, mister. The blind girl can make it to a cab on her own. _

Misplaced pity was the last thing she needed. This would not be the first--nor sadly the last--time someone had seen her in public by herself and asked if she  _ needed a hand  _ for the most simple of tasks. Not just a week ago the same thing had occurred while at a cafe just down the street--and then Foggy had only stepped away for a  _ moment _ .

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I took a seat. Here, with you,” the stranger went on, a fumbling and stunted speech pattern belying uncertainty. The tremor of nerves beat within this mans heart, but he was resolute in intention all the same. 

The question is out of left field for Matty, and she fumbles herself for a moment. Her knee-jerk dies stale on her lips-- _ I’m expecting someone, actually-- _ because they both know  _ he  _ knows no one else is pining for the seat across from her. Not tonight, at least. 

No time to weigh pros and cons, expectations or wants. Politeness, whipped into her by sturdy rulers when she was just a girl, take control of her mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind, you can sit. If you want, I mean.”

“Thank you,” the man says, and with a practiced carefulness pulls the chair out and takes his seat. It is only really then that Matty takes the man in for all he is, of what she can perceive. He is  _ huge _ , by general standard, tall and bulky and he would be  _ lumbering _ if it weren't for the way he held himself. A gentle giant. 

“My name --is Wilson. Wilson Fisk.”

“People call me Matty,” Politeness did not mean sharing ones full name with a stranger built like a WWE wrestler. 

“Matty,” Wilson says her name like he’s testing it, rolling it over his tongue as though tasting a wine. “That’s a beautiful name.”

Usually, when men try swinging such ham handed compliments, over used and obvious, it makes Matty cringe. But from Fisk it felt genuine. He spoke as though reciting a poem for the first time.

“Thank you,” A blush creeps over her cheeks; then she smirks. “My daddy got it for me.”

Tongue and cheek was always her best defense, and despite the awkwardness that clings to the man like a second skin, he laughs freely. It’s deep, of course, with his baritone rasp, but it carries light with humor at her nervous joke. It ends a little too abruptly to be normal, like he’s caught himself laughing  _ too long _ and corrects the error manually. 

“Have you --decided what you’ll be having tonight?”

Matty’s tentative smile slips off her face, expression falling before she can catch it. This was the inevitable--if the man was not here to help the disabled woman to her cab, then he was here to be a  _ ‘gentleman’.  _ This burned her ego, like salt sprinkled into a wound. She did not need some white knight to come to her rescue.

“I know you’ve been here for a while,” Matty said, not unkindly. He meant well, after all. “I heard you order your dinner. You’ve already eaten. There’s no reason to pretend. I may be blind, but I can  _ perceive  _ a lot more around me than most think.”

“Apologies,” Wilson is quick to say, but then there’s an extended pause. Some would consider this another social faux pas, but Matty saw more beneath the surface. 

Fisk was a man of calculated words, withholding impulse behind his teeth like a cage. Thoughts fueled by, if Matty wasn’t mistaken, anxiety. These were traits the brunette was more used to seeing in smaller men, shorter or more lean. Those who held themselves like a house of cards. The weight of interaction bore down heavy on their supports, and the cynic in them was always watching and waiting for the day things would crumble about them, while the rational part of their mind did the best it could to avoid any such confrontation.

Wilson Fisk was a six-story card castle, spires high and terrified of a gusty wind. Yet all the same this man had gone  _ looking  _ for a breeze.

“I am perhaps clumsy with my --my intentions. I meant no disrespect. I am  _ \--aware _ you are not incapable. I did not mean to deceive.”

Fisk’s hands come to the table cloth, most likely an unconscious tick, his fingers working diligently to flatten and straighten the deep, red cloth. Nervous gestures, but his heart beat true. He was not lying.

“However, I know you were expecting someone. And they,” a moment to carefully choose his next words. “Have  _ failed _ to treat you with the respect that is --deserving. I saw an injustice, and I wanted to -- _ correct it. _ ”

Wilson’s words make Matty smile. A small upturn of the lips, but quickly it slithers up her cheeks and crinkles her eyes, hidden behind her red-tinted glasses. Despite how Matty’s  _ date _ had gone, the gentle giant managed to make genuine enjoyment bubble to the surface of her self pity induced wallowing.

“Dessert,” she says, and certainly does not revel in the tension that breaks across Fisk’s form. Relief floods his entire being--Matty is blind as a bat and she can practically  _ see  _ how his body folds more comfortably about itself.

“Buy me dessert and I can count this evening salvaged,” She huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Thank you,” Fisk says earnestly, and she can hear as he takes his hand from the table to wave down a waiter. It’s surreal, all of it, because as a general rule a strange man approaching you in public ends poorly. Matty knows this, has experienced this first hand, and yet… The hesitancy she felt before feels far outweighed by a shy enticement. 

They converse over some overpriced brownie sundae. She can’t recall the lengthy name of the dish, nor that of the sweet wine Fisk requests to go with it, but Matty appreciates the taste. As a rule the brunette was not one for dessert--or wine, for that matter--but as with many things tonight, she has made an exception.

She has yet to be disappointed.

“A law student,” Fisk says with no amount of surprise, only admiration. “I’m assuming Columbia?”

“Yes,” Matty has found herself answering more freely. She supposed two glasses could do that to someone who does not often partake. “I’m in my last year, actually. Or starting it, anyway.”

“Any ideas of where you’ll go once you graduate?”

Matty sucks on her bottom lip, catching the faint traces of chocolate and fermented grape left behind. She’s found herself leaning with one elbow on the table, rude as it may be the wine has made her a little dizzy and tired. Maybe she has had too much--she questions answering Fisk this time. At least truthfully. 

In the end, her marinated brian decides no real harm could come from it.

“I want to move back to my roots. Hell’s Kitchen.”

Fisk pauses, not unusual for him, but this time Matty can sense that tension has made its way back into their conversation.

“Hell’s Kitchen. I am --familiar. I grew up there as well.”

“Oh? Small world,” She wasn’t sure what else to say. In the state that it was in, there wasn’t much  _ to  _ be said about Hell’s Kitchen. “Do you still live there, or?”

“I have moved back --recently. I found I could not escape it.”

“I feel the same exact way. Growing up there, it works itself under your skin. It becomes part of who you are. You can try to move away, try to forget about everything that molded you, but it’s always there. Like a hum in the back of your head. That’s actually why I became a lawyer, I--”

Matty stopped herself short, a blush slowly forming from embarrassment.

“Christ, sorry. I don’t drink very often--apparently I get sappy and go on tirades.” 

“Don’t be,” Fisk says quickly, an unusual amount of force behind his words. “That was --perfect. You’re description. And I appreciate your --passion. You should never hide that, the way you feel when you feel it so  _ strongly _ .”

“I feel silly, but,” she smiled, dopey from wine and genuine from their pleasant meal. “Thank you for understanding. I know a lot of people who have given up on their city. It deserves better, the people who live their do too.”

The waiter comes and clears the table, and leaves the tab for Wilson. Madeline has the urge to ask for two checks; this wasn’t Fisk’s date, after all, he hadn’t planned to be paying for them both, but the surety in which the man accepts the receipt--how Matty doesn’t even hear him  _ look  _ at the balance before handing over his card--stops her.

“Thank you for this,” Matty says instead. “You didn’t have to, but--you made my night.”

She gulps down the last of her  _ (third)  _ glass of red. She needed it if she were going to make any kind of an elegant exit. The heat at her cheeks feel like a constant thing now, a mix of the alien feeling of social anxiety and a good buzz.

“I would be lying if I said I did this for --entirely -- _ selfless -- _ reasons,” Wilson says with his curious inflection. “I saw you, waiting. And I wanted nothing more then for no one to come and fill the seat across from you.”

“Flattery.”

“No,” he corrects. “Honesty.”

Another lull. Matty could hear from the back that the waiter had finished processing Fisk’s card and would be coming back any moment. She felt, inexplicably, like an ultimatum laid before her, but was at a loss of what to do.

“Are you nearby?” she asks, no forethought. She fears she is being too forward, and god if the man's careful pauses aren’t terrifying now.

“My home --is still under renovation. I only moved back a few weeks ago,” Matty’s heart sinks, a terrible feeling of rejection. Christ, she  _ had  _ been too forward--

“I have been staying at the Marriott --on Central Park.”

Relief calms the storm inside Matty’s wine dizzy thoughts. She grins wide from nerves, a laugh punches out from her chest, short and breathy.

“Would you,” Fisk starts. “Would you like to come back with me --perhaps for a coffee?”

And it’s so cliche and ridiculous, especially when Madeline so obviously made the ‘first move’ and made her intentions clear. She can’t help but to laugh again, this time less strained and more defined.

“Yes, Wilson, I think I would like to come back with you.”

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

To say Fisk is a perfect stranger would be disingenuous.

In a city as large as New York, many who were foreigners simply adopting the name of native would be surprised how true the saying _it’s a small world_ could be. But having grown up in Hell’s Kitchen, being so familiar with Manhattan, the Bronx, every nook and cranny New York City had to offer, Wilson Fisk was used to familiar strangers crossing his path every day. People in general stayed to their routines. Fisk was not an exception, more often than not.

And neither was Matty.

She liked her coffee with three creams and a truly unhealthy amount of sugar. Most days, an inner conflict would play across her expressive face and she’d cave and buy a pastry to go along with her morning brew. Fisk knew all this, and more tiny little quirks and bits of information, because Matty often frequented the same mom and pop coffee shop as him.

It started as a curious observance. Matty carried herself with such confidence. It was not to say she shouldn’t, or that it was unexpected because of her disability, but that even compared to those who had all senses intact, no foreseeable “disadvantage”, she held her head higher and walked with a sense of purpose. It was refreshing to see someone walk with a gaite that spoke more than of a self pitying existence, trudging in a self imposed wheel of repetition and grievance. ‘Matty’ walked like a woman who had a grand scheme--a plan she had every intention of executing with the same preciseness she had while walking in heels.

It is serendipitous, he decides, when Wilson Fisk sees her alone at Ferrero’s Italiana.

For weeks Fisk had watched her come and go in the early morning hours, always in a rush--sometimes alone, other times with a friend. He had collected intel as though she were one of the rivals he faced in the city’s underground, kept a mental file stashed away with small bits of conversation overheard--information stolen away as though he were a common thief. Matty was a college student. Matty liked the color red. Matty was single, but also a bit promiscuous, but not with any ill intent.

Matty was complicated, and her affections were complicated, and the boys she dated from campus never lived up to her expectations.

Often, once she had left the store with her coffee and pastry, Wilson Fisk would stare into his own black brew and imagine if _he_ could meet those expectations.

He never had any intention to break their unknown routine. Fisk had been content, up to that point, to merely watch the young woman from the distance--never meant to act on his impulses. He was a busy man, after all, and possibly significantly older than what she was looking for. There were a thousand and one reasons for Matty to reject any form of connection Wilson might try to cultivate between them, and a very small margin for her to react positively.

Matty’s date, however, her latest conquest, took the decision to remain inert away.

It _would_ be an injustice, after all, for someone as beautiful as Matty to be stood up, left humiliated with no explanation, possibly with ill intent from the beginning. There was a thousand and one reasons for Matty to simply get up and leave the restaurant, ignore the _stranger_ who approached her with an offer to right the wrongs of the night. But Fisk was sure he could count a thousand and one reasons why he should try all the same.

This once he would give in to impulse. This once he would hedge his bets with the risk of failure a much higher probability than success.

Because Matty was complicated, and so were her needs of affection; but Wilson Fisk was complicated too.

 

 

 

This isn't the first time one of Matty’s initial dates has ended with an overpriced hotel room. Possibly, it's the first time staying somewhere so ritzy, but certainly there would be men charming enough for her to be so forward in the future, just as there had been a handful in the past.

While Matty cannot see the opulence around her, she can smell it, taste it, _hear_ it. The lobby is wide and lays way to its own cafe--opposite was a bar, small but not cramped. Crowded but not overly so. Everything seemed precise, organized with precision. From the fake plants to the _guests._ It sent a shot of nerves racing along her spine, the hum of anxiety simmering beneath her skin.

These were a symptom of one reared in the lower economic bracket, Matty knows; ugly, self-deprecating thoughts trying to eat away at the steel beaten into her spirit by Stick. The wine keeps the emotions in check, however, and the gentle hand at her lower back helps embolden her as well. Perhaps she was out of place here, in this 5-star monstrosity, but she was not out of place with Wilson Fisk. The excited beat of his heart let her know he wanted her, the thought never wavering.

The walk from the car to the room is quiet and strained. Despite them both knowing what they were doing, both consenting adults searching for the same pleasurable ending, neither of them seemed prepared for the length of silence that trailed in the wake of expensive wine and good food. Accompioning them to the elevator is the distinct _clicks_ of Matty’s heels and the occasional murmured warning from Fisk. The man seemed uncertain of how to treat Matty, wanting to be a gentlemen yet not wanting to step on the toes of a blind woman who, even tipsy as she was, seemed plenty capable of navigating the world around her.

Matty knew she should relieve him of the stressor, let the poor thing know she did not mind his concern so long as it did not become coddling, but was too amused by the nervous rattle about his limbs to do so.

“I am on the tenth floor,” Fisk’s voice is gruff, like he had to push the words from his throat to get them out.

Matty feigns shock, putting a hand over her breast in exaggerated surprise.

 _“Not_ the top floor? I might have to call that cabbie back.”

Matty cannot _see_ Fisk’s smile, but she can sense it in the way his shoulders drop minutely, no longer holding the weight of the world upon them. Perhaps she had let the tension build for too long; perhaps she had been cruel.

The elevator shakes, a grinding sound as it climbs up and up, and Matty takes the chance to feign forward. She decides to feed into the mans _White Knight_ complex--a change, for the night. She could be a damsel if that’s what Wilson needed.

 _“Oh!”_ she gasps, letting a heel slip beneath her foot. Wilson reaches out, reflexes quick and precise, catching Matty around the waist. She settles her heels beneath herself, righting her footing, but leans heavily back as though she had not quite caught her bearings yet. Fisk pulls her closer, instinct to keep her steady.

When Matty tips her head back, the only distance between them is the one created by their difference in height.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have finished that last glass,” Matty laughs, smiling--she doesn’t need to fake this. The upturn of her lips is genuine; even if she was cheating to get what she wanted.

Wilson’s heart stutters from nerves, beating like a panicked bird within his ribcage. He does not reply to her quip, not with words. Instead, the man leans forward, slowly at first, uncertain. He brings one hand away from Matty’s waist, placing it gently at the side of her face, fingers gliding into her hair, over her ear. He wasn’t asking for permission, only giving her enough warning to turn away if Matty wanted to.

The kiss is gentle, at first, but that does not last long. Matty instigates, deepening the kiss and nibbling on Fisk’s bottom lip. He growls at that, and pushes his way forward, pushing Matty up against the elevators wall. Like the break of a dam, his aggression was abrupt and encompassing.

Gone was the White Knight rescuing his damsel.

Fisk keeps one hand in her hair, holding her where he wanted, while the other slid down her neck, down her arm, past her hips, under the hem of her skirt. Wilson is careful when he runs his hand up her leg, but certainly he is as sure of himself as forceful--taking what he wanted, no longer asking. He grabs Matty’s ass and she startles, gasping into the mans mouth and breaking the kiss.

The elevator doors open.

Matty has a moment of panic--what if one of the other guests saw them--but quickly her senses tell her no one else is entering, nor is there anyone lingering in the hallway. All the same, Matty pulls back. Or tries to. For a moment, Fisk is an immovable force. Sturdy as a pillar of concrete. He keeps her pinned with the hand in her hair and the hand on her ass.

Matty has half the mind to push the man away, it would be an effort but she knew she could. The urge is a knee-jerk, however, as seconds behind that thought she decides the forcefulness is an absolute turn on and she doesn’t want it to stop.

After a moment, after Fisk decides he has made his point of who was in charge and who was leading their affair, he pulls away, hand leaving Matty’s skirt to circle around her waist, guiding her toward his room. Matty is still tipsy but steady on her feet; all the same she grabs a fistful of Wilson’s suit jacket and grasps the hand at her hip. She was not helpless--rarely could Matty define herself as that after all she had been through with Stick--but she liked the change in dynamic; wanted to see where it would go. Wanted to play along with the gentle giant that knew exactly what he wanted and was not afraid to take it.

Wilson’s room is at the end of the hall. By the time he lets her in and shuts the door behind them, Matty has had the time to compose herself. Her breathing is steady, the flush she had felt creep down her neck gone. Her heart, however, raced in her chest--as though trying to compete with Wilson’s. Matty could also feel the beginnings of an uncomfortable wetness, making her panties stick to her skin so that she felt every movement of her legs.

Wilson looms from behind, placing his hands at her elbows and steering her to face the wall. He leans forward, weight pressing Matty forward until she had to turn her head and rest her cheek against the cool wallpaper to stay comfortable. Wilson reaches for the hem of her skirt again, this time with both hands. It starts a slow slide up her thighs, but stops just at her ass.

“I will stop--if that is what you wish,” Fisk breaths into her ear. It is warm, his voice  rasping. It sends a shiver down her spine, straight to her lower abdomen where it blooms into a warm arousal. Matty’s only answer is silence. It’s all the permission Wilson needs.

He pushes the skirt the rest of the way up. The material is tight, but stretched comfortably over Matty’s curves. It hugged her waist, not slipping from where Wilson puts it. It frees both his hand, and Wilson takes full advantage.

He admires her, for a moment, rubbing his hands from her thighs to her ass, playing with the hem of her panties, gripping a handful and squeezing.

“You are--beautiful,” Wilson says. Before Matty can snark a reply he brings an open palm down on her cheek, eliciting a surprised yelp. It stings terribly for a moment. Again Matty’s instincts rile to the surface demanding she fight back, but in the next second the pain turns to a strange, warm pleasure. Matty had never done _this_ before, in all her college exploring. But she thought she might like it.

Wilson doesn’t give Matty time to collect herself or linger on the abuse. He spins her around, steals another kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth and biting her bottom lip hard.

“Fuck,” she mutters into his lips as he pulled away, because a lot was happening at once, a lot of sensations and a lot of self discovery. But Wilson was far from slowing down. He grabs her by the hips, hands settling just below where he had hiked Matty’s skirt, pushing himself into her, rubbing his clothed erection against her upper hip and stomach.

Matty had been with a lot of men, possibly some bigger than Wilson, but it was never size that mattered. It was what came with it; the arousal her partner could create. He felt heavy and _thick_ against her, beneath the thin material of his pants. He was obviously very confident, which did not quite match up with the Wilson Fisk she met at the restaurant, but his boldness formed a heat between them. Fisk knew how to instill a sensual atmosphere without relying on hyper masculine boasting.

“I am going to put this in you.”

From anyone else the words would be awkward; just a very straightforward narration of sex between a man and a woman. For some inexplicable reason, from Wilson’s mouth, the words elicited a desperate sound. Matty was horny and _wanted_ him in her very, very badly.

He undoes his belt buckle, pulling his pants and boxers down just enough to pull himself out. He doesn’t let Matty touch him, nor does he touch _her_ in the way she expects. Matty thinks he’ll finger her, prep her, get her wet before they move forward. Instead, Wilson pushes her back into the wall and lifts one of her legs off the ground.

 _“Wilson,”_ Matty yelps indignantly, arms reflexively wrapping around his neck, bunching the back of his suit jacket in her hands. Fisk doesn’t stop. He lets her leg rest in the crook of his arm, using his free hand to pull her underwear to the side before pushing into her.

“Oh God.”

It doesn’t hurt. There is a friction from the drier penetration; Matty is wet but not enough for Wilson to just slip in. Instead, the first thrust remains shallow. He breaches her, head pushing inside, but the lack of lubricant keeps him from entering all the way. Fisk pulls back, a sticky warmth trailing after him, before he pushes back in, this time making it _that much_ farther inside Matty.

It takes four thrusts before Wilson is wet enough from Matty’s arousal to bottom out inside her.

It feels good, the lack of prep. Matty feels tight; like she could feel every inch of him this way.

Once fully inside, Wilson lifts Matty’s other leg, heel slipping off her foot. There was effort, but the man is strong and uses her like her weight meant nothing. LIke this, it’s deep. Wilson pulls back and lets gravity do most of the work, letting Matty slide back onto him, pushing himself up hard to meet her.

With the angle, with her legs pulled apart and up, her panties stretch tight, pressing Matty’s skin, rubbing indirectly over her clitors. Its perfect; fast and consistent. She’s already so far gone from the abrupt penetration and the eroticism of it all, it doesn’t take much more to make her come. She feels heat right below her stomach, feels herself get so wet it drips down her ass and onto the floor. She restricts around Wilson, an involuntary action that makes every movement more distinct and sends Matty over.

“Fuck, _fuck,”_  she moans, loud and uncaring if anyone in the next rooms over could hear. She had always been vocal, and Wilson knew all the right buttons to push to dissolve any self control Matty had. The feeling sends a ripple of goose flesh over her skin, a warmth spreading through out her extremities. Her vaginal walls relax.

Wilson is still fucking her.

It starts to hurt, then, from the over stimulation. Matty doesn’t want Fisk to stop.

She feels the man tense head to toe, his thrusts becoming a little more desperate not long after her orgasm. She feels Fisk deliberately bury himself as far as he can in Matty before pushing his head into the crook of her neck, coming with a loud grunt. His legs shake, but never waver. Wilson holds Matty securely to the wall as he rides out his own orgasm. Matty admired his stamina.

They breathe each other in, both catching their breath; sweat mingling between them. Clothing sticking uncomfortably. Matty’s enhanced senses could pick up a range of things off the man, from old coffee, Ferraro's clinging to his jacket; expensive cologne and what almost smelled like gunpowder. The last gave her pause, but it was too faint to really place the scent accurately. Matty rationalized that her twilight parkour had beaten a certain amount of paranoia into her thoughts; enemies at every turn.

As Wilson comes back to himself, he begins to lavish shy, conservative kisses to Matty’s neck. The gentle White Knight emerging from beneath the giant who had just fucked Matty against a wall. Thoughts of bad guys and guns and violence quickly disappear.

As nice as the kisses felt, and as nimble as she was, Matty’s legs were beginning to cramp.

“Is there a bed in this fancy room?”

“Apologies,” Wilson says, buried in her but still using his peculiar speech pattern. “I can get--a little carried away.”

 _“_ No apologies necessary, trust me.”

Matty expects to be let down, but Wilson surprises her again. He adjusts Matty's legs so that they can wrap around his waist, moving away from the wall and toward the bed, all the while keeping himself inside her.

 _Possessive,_ Matty thinks at first. But it was more than that too. It felt a little desperate, a little bit like the comfort of having someone close was being held in a vice. She wasn't sure if that should be concerning. She didn't know much about this man other than that he could be incredibly gentle and also incredibly dominant. Still, he had given her no real reason for concern, and she had slept with a few men that had little quirks stranger than being clingy before.

“I do not--invite--many women back with me,” Fisk says, obviously uneasy with what he was about to say. “I can get you an after pill--if that is what you want.”

“Birth control,” Matty says easily. “Like I said, no need for apologies.”

For a while they lay on the bed, Wilson’s softening cock still inside Matty; his hulking frame encompassing her slighter figure from above, but not unpleasantly. It's one of the nicer afterglows that Matty has experienced with one night stands. There was no awkward pillow talk, and neither of them were in any kind of rush. She relaxed into the soft bed beneath her, eyes slipping shut, dancing upon the precipice of sleep.

Matty is roused by the motion of small, shallow thrusts; Wilson's breath becoming more prominent in her ear. He was becoming hard again, still tucked inside her.

It's a surprise, but not necessarily a bad one. It wasn't often Matty found a partner capable of going more than one round. Would be a shame to not take advantage.

Wilson kisses along her neck, her ear, her lips, teasing with his quick, shallow thrusts as he became harder. He seemed intent to make up for the lack of foreplay before.

“Please,” Matty says, impatient. She wasn't used to begging, but she absolutely wasn't above it at that moment. “Wilson, please.”

Fisk pulls out entirely then, once again looming over Matty as he drew himself onto his knees. He pulls at her shirt, careful to not pop a button but forceful all the same. Next he pulls her skirt down, underwear following with it. She reaches to unbutton Wilson's shirt as well, but he pushes her hands away. He removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeves. That's the extent of his undressing.

“That's not fair,” Matty complains. She feels exposed and a little embarrassed. She couldn't see him, of course, but it felt strange for only herself to be stripped.

He ignores her, and next is pulling at her hips, _telling_ her to flip onto her stomach. Matty hesitates for a moment. She doesn't normally take it from behind, always paranoid about having so little control in a position. But she wants it; wants it rough, wants to be used. She allows the move, her desire like a mantra to keep Matty from changing her mind.

On all fours, Wilson unclips her bra. He doesn't remove it, just let's it slide down Matty’s arms. Before she can try to untangle herself from the straps, he's pushing her into the mattress.

Wilson keeps a steadying grip on Matty’s hips, making sure her ass stayed in the air. He places both hands on her cheeks, pulls them apart so he could look at every inch of her. It's embarrassing, perhaps this time too much so. Matty buries her head into the sheets, voice muffled.

“I'm not sure about this position,” she says, voice wavering. She wanted the sex, but felt incredibly exposed.

Wilson doesn't heed her, acting as though she hadn't spoken at all. He slips inside her, the penetration easy now that she was wet from her own arousal and his come. He fucks her hard, as she had hoped. Hands gripping her hips so tight it hurt, the sound of his skin slapping against hers filling the room. She could feel the weight of his balls against her with every thrust. She doesn't hold back this time. Matty enjoyed being mouthy, her moans and grunts and sighs heightening her own experience, pushed her into the moment and helped block out distractions.

She supposed the neighbors must hate them by now.

Matty is so preoccupied, focusing on the sharp jab she felt inside her with every forward thrust, that she didn't notice the thumb toying with her ass until it slipped in.

“ _Wilson,”_ she says a little desperately. She had used toys, before. Small ones. Matty knew she liked things up there, but had never really had a good moment or partner to try it with.

“I want this,” Wilson demands.

It's a split second decision, but Matty pants and pushes back eggearly onto Wilson’s thumb.

“You can have it.”

Wilson pulls out abruptly, eliciting a sound of surprise. Matty stays like that, on all fours, panting like she had just finished a few rounds at the gym, while Wilson got up from the bed, presumably for lube.

As Wilson settles behind Matty again, his hand returns to her cheeks, pulling them apart, squeezing, massaging them. He kisses her there, and Matty moans at the strange sensation.

“Has anyone--” the uncertainty was back, the man's tone strange in the midst of his rough handling. “Have you ever-- _been_ with someone-- like this? ”

“You'll be the first,” Matty answers. She's not sure why that means something to the man, but the response makes him breathe heavy out if his nose; he bites one of her cheeks, hard, before kissing what was probably a forming bruise in apology. Throughout Matty only grips the sheets, feels herself start to run down her thighs.

“Do you trust me?” Wilson asks. It seems like a silly question, because of course Matty doesn't. He was a perfect stranger, a one night stand she'd never see again.

“With this, yes,” Matty says instead of ruining the mood. He accepts the answer for what it is.

Wilson only uses one finger to prep Matty. He uses what seems like an excessive amount of lube, until Matty realizes he only planned to use that one finger before pushing himself into her. It seems impossible, like he would never fit. Where he breaches her burns, almost to the point of Matty telling him to stop. She hesitates. Curious about what it would feel like, if she could work through the pain.

Matty feels Wilson's balls rest against her vagina. It’s a little surprising; throughout she had only felt pain--had not realized Wilson had gone past the head, had been pushing in the whole time. It was encouraging, if the pain she felt now was the worst of it, she could handle the rest.

Matty's only half right.

When Wilson pulls back, there is only pain. He pulls against a ring of muscle that felt like it was on fire. She's about to tell Wilson to pull out, to stop, when he pushes back in. It wasn't like vaginal sex, the pleasure she felt from his forward thrust was not nearly as defined. It was strange, she couldn't pinpoint what about it felt _good_ , just knew that it did. It made the burning a distraction, not unbearable like it had been just seconds before. It hurt, but she wanted more. She didn't want Wilson to stop. He's careful, not like he had been, his thrusts even and paced. Like he knew exactly what she was feeling.

This time, Fisk does not last long. Matty isn't sure if it's the sounds she makes, how she must look beneath him, or because he was the first to ever touch her there, but she doesn't care. As good as anal felt, as they went the pain began to come back, the lube drying up. She didn't want to stop, not unless it was with him buried in her ass, finishing inside. But she wouldn't last much longer before it became too much.

Again Fisk’s whole body tenses up. He bends forward, around Matty, grunting into her ear as he held onto her tightly.

Matty does not come this time, but she feels incredibly satisfied all the same. Tired and the good kind of sore. Sticky and wet and used. She thinks she's found a new favorite thing.

This time Fisk does pull out. He is gentle, slow, and stops each time Matty made a little unhappy sound. This is the Wilson Fisk from the restaurant.

He lays beside her prone form. Matty can feel his eyes on her, watching as she caught her breath. He reaches out, but hesitates. He wants to hold her, wants to spoon, it his confidence seemed to evaporate in the face of their afterglow.

Matty reaches out for him. She rolls over so her back leans against his chest, pulls the outreach arm around herself. She's tired, knows it's late and she needs to head back to her dorm soon, but she likes Wilson enough to give him this comfort. And perhaps, just a little bit, she enjoys the closeness too.

Wilson relaxes then, reading into Matt's actions as intended. He wraps himself around her slighter frame, again all but encompassing her. He uses one arm to pillow her head, the other slips to her stomach and holds her, palming the muscled flesh almost reverently. Sigmund would have his interests piqued, Matty thinks. The action is telling though she doubts he knows what he's doing. It added another layer to who Wilson Fisk was. A gentleman, a man with select confidence, aggressive if provoked; Matty bet it took a lot to set off his temper, but once realized would be explosive. Wilson was also exceptionally clingy, almost desperate for touch; desperate for affection. A partner.

Matty laid a hand over Fisk’s.

Perhaps even desperate for a family.

She had enough of her own issues to recognize someone else's. To recognize someone else who felt the empty space around them; loneliness in a city full of people.

It didn't change anything though. This is how Matty coped. Hopefully Wilson had his own method.

“I'll take you up on that coffee,” her voice feels loud, disturbing the quiet they had been resting in. Matty knows from Wilson's heartbeat that he is not asleep, however. At first Wilson does not move, perhaps realizing that things were coming to a close and regretting it. Or perhaps he had hoped she would just slip into the night when things were done. Matty doesn't know the man well enough to truly speculate, nor does she care. She had sensed a kitchenette attached to the suite; she needed the coffee and wanted some privacy to get dressed.

“Of course,” Wilson says, pulling away; rightening his trousers and shirt as he stood. As he reached the doorway to the kitchen he hesitated.

“Your coffee-- did you want cream or sugar?”

“Three creams, a ton of sugar please.”

“Of course.”

Matty peels herself from the bed, limbs tired and sore. Classes tomorrow would suck; but it had absolutely been worth it.

Matty straightens out her bra, pokes around for her shirt, and shimmies back into her skirt and panties. She's sticky though, and knows it'll be annoying catching a cab with how much of a mess she was. What she wanted was a shower, but she was determined to do so at home. For now, she'd make do with a washcloth and the bathroom sink.

A thought comes to mind. Some of the hotels Matty had stayed in before kept a packet of wet wipes laying around, or an extra face towel at least. It would be nice to stem the oncoming leak before heading toward the bathroom. Matty runs her hand over one of the bedside tables, opens the drawer quietly in case Wilson was fastidious about his conquests going through his stuff. When she reaches inside, she’s startled by what she finds.

Two guns. A revolver; a handgun. Both large, heavy things. Not the kind of guns one toted around for safety. The kind of guns you got off the street; the kind that had dangerous intentions behind them. She picks one up with practiced easy. The revolver wasn't fully loaded, there were three bullets missing.

Matty recalled the faint scent of gunpowder that lingered around Fisk like a guilty conscience.

“That's dangerous,” Fisk says as he enters the room, voice genuinely concerned. Matty startles; she had been so preoccupied with her thoughts she hadn't sensed the man coming. She puts the gun back in the drawer, stands tall.

“Perhaps not the only thing dangerous in this room.”

“I take those wherever I go-- for protection, of course.”

“You and I both know that's not true. Or at least it's not the whole truth.”

The silence that follows is very telling.

“I think I should go,” Matty says, pulling on her heels and combing her fingers through her hair.

“Don’t,” Wilson starts, but his mouth closes tight, words once more locked within an enamel cage. Uncertainty and anxiety making up his entire being in that moment. The shy gentleman who bought her dessert wanting to reach out and stop Matty from leaving. But the other side of Fisk--the more violent side, she now knew--understood that she could not be swayed, and she was done letting him push her around. The fun was over, the night spoiled. They'd never see each other again, but Matty would stay up nights to come wondering if she had just slept with a murderer. She would wonder why it took two guns and a very resigned Wilson Fisk for her to see the darkness that lurked about the man.

Matty leaves Wilson standing there, in the doorway of the kitchenette, coffee cooling in his hand. She calls herself a cab. She walks herself inside her dorm. She ignores the million texts from Foggy.

Matty doesn't go to classes the next few days, tells Foggy she has a stomach bug. She researches local media outlets, obsessed with finding whatever wrong Wilson had committed what must have been just hours before they had met.

_Three bullets…_

After a few days of looking with nothing to show for it, Matty decides it's not healthy to linger. There was nothing more she could do. She just wanted to forget the whole thing.

Then Matty meets Electra, and forgetting Wilson Fisk isn't so hard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
